


light pollution

by cheerynoir, sirfeit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Adventure, F/F, F/M, Gang Violence, Gen, Intrigue, M/M, Magic, Mystery, Spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-01-31 22:54:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12691869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerynoir/pseuds/cheerynoir, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: the magical/mobverse/mystery/modern au you didn’t know you wantedbellamy blake hires a private investigator to find his lieutenant, john murphy, who has gone missing.or: modernverse!lukotwartitle from the song 'light pollution' by hi i'm case. formerly titled 'run this town'.





	1. one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey pals! this is something that's been brewing for a while. thanks to cheerynoir, The Best, for basically everything, including this title

Bellamy’s thoughts are a blur as he steps into the Moonlight Diner. He’s thinking about their defences, how they’ve only been able to hold back Trikru for this long because of their guns. How they’ll never be able to make it in the long run. How to reinforce the security around the edge of their camp. The thrum in the back of his brain: _Octavia, Octavia, Octavia._

He’s been going around for a couple weeks now, asking the bodega owners, the little old ladies he passes on the street (only gotten maced twice!), adult-looking people: have you seen this kid? He’s only got the one picture on his phone, and the screen is cracked down the middle. Till one of them finally says “I don’t know where your kid is, but you should talk to Jonathan Wilde. He’s a private investigator. You can find him in the Moonlight Diner most moonlit nights.”

It’s a moonlit night. Moonlight Diner is exactly like every two-bit diner he’s ever been in: red booth seating, linoleum counters, checkered floors. Radio’s playin’ something by [the Stellars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l05MRqki1uo). One booth is occupied. Bellamy breezes past the _please wait to be seated_ sign and approaches.

Jon Wilde is something like what the stories say, like what Bellamy heard was the word on the street. He’s tall, but not that tall, maybe cause he’s sitting down. Broad, more dark-skinned than Bellamy is, got papers spread out next to him. Wearing an iron Saint pendant. Eating a cheeseburger with both hands. Bellamy slides in across from him.

Wilde sets the cheeseburger down. Looks over at him. It’s — not a friendly look. “I wanna hire you,” says Bellamy, words all tripping over each other.

Wilde looks him over. “Kid,” he says. “You look like you don’t have a steady place to sleep, and you smell like you’ve been showering in public restrooms. Can you afford my services?”

“What are your rates?” asks Bellamy, because like, that’s what people ask, right, when they have money?

“$175/day plus expenses,” says Wilde. Oh.

“I got money,” says Bellamy. He does not have money. Wilde, if he’s worth his salt, knows this. He’s gonna go for it anyway.

Wilde raises an eyebrow. “Hm,” he says. Casual disbelief. Mild disinterest. Takes another bite of his cheeseburger. Stirs his melting milkshake. “Alright,” he says at last. “I’ll bite. What do you want, freckles?”

“This kid,” he says, pulling out his phone, the one photo. “He’s missing. John Murphy. I think he’s still in the city.”

“Ah,” says Jon, studying the photo. “Is he that important to you?”

“Yes,” says Bellamy, without hesitation. “Absolutely. You think you can find him?”

“Gonna need a hard copy of this photo,” says Wilde.

“Okay,” says Bellamy. He can print one out at the library. “Anything else?”

“He a runaway?” Wilde asks.

“No,” says Bellamy. “At least, I don’t think so. I think he was — taken, maybe, or got into a bad situation. But I don’t think he left willingly.”

“His parents in the picture at all?”

Bellamy kind of shrugs. “One’s dead, one’s real bad, lives down South. I don’t think he would’ve left the city to visit her.”

“Alright,” says Jon. “If you’re sure.” Asks him a couple more questions, some about Bellamy, too, and the best way to contact him. Slips back into silence.

Bellamy lets him for a couple more seconds, then: “You’ll take the case.”

“Yeah,” says Wilde. “I’ll take your case, freckles.”

—

He gets back to their hideout with time left to spare until the morning. Takes the backdoor, so he doesn’t have to deal with Mbege. Clarke’s awake, too early. “You sleep last night?” she asks, like she’s worried about him.

“A little,” he lies.

“I’ll wake the crew up,” she says. “You get some rest.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.” Like he’s grateful. Like he doesn’t know that this isn’t another power move, designed to make the crew get used to her.

When he gets to the little alcove where he keeps his mattress and a few of his things, he pulls out his notebook. Written in code, the names of his four lieutenants gone missing: John Murphy. His second. Nathan Miller. Zoe Monroe. Dax.

He remembers pulling them each out of the wreckage of the bus, iron wristbands sharp against their skin. Octavia beside him, miraculously uninjured.

They crashed in the middle of the city. It was impossible not to. One hundred juvenile delinquents from a half dozen different detention centers, witches and nonmagics alike. Iron bands around all of their wrists.

None of them suggested going back, trying to contact someone for a ride to take them back to juvie. The witches knew what they were going back to: the end of their sentences and then the nebulous and terrifying prospect of Witch School. The nonmagics might have gotten something for turning the witches in, but it wouldn’t be good, and it would hardly be a reward. Not even Clarke suggests it.

They turn to crime: it’s what they’re good at, and Bellamy helps it along; here, we can do _whatever the hell we want._ And they run to the underground; avoid the media, the cops. Hiding. Nonmagics helping witches get their wristbands off, the iron ineffective against their skin. Octavia, with her hair wild and her magic wilder, touching each of their foreheads and whispering the old spell: _fenfenny_. Friends defend me. Hide me, keep me safe. And it kept them safe from cops, from the press, from their enemies already named.

But they’d crashed in territory already claimed: Polaris was no neutral city. It was ruled by two gangs; Azgeda, in the north, and Trikru, in the south. Operated with their own code, nothing like cryptography, Trigedasleng. And Trikru considered them a threat, considered them crashing a bus full of witches as a challenge to their space.

Bellamy starts his own militia to defend against Trikru. Clarke, a nonmagic, and Finn, a witch, had argued for peace. Clarke wants to be leader, he knows, wants to join Trikru, maybe, as an ally. He knows about her secret meetings with the Trikru leader, Lexa. Knows that Trikru has cooled down around them since his four lieutenants went missing. Suspects. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t let her know.

Clarke steps in to his field of vision. He sets the notebook aside. “You’re still worried about them,” she says, but she doesn’t make it a question. Makes it sound like she cares about him. It’s easy to believe her. “Harper had a huge fight with Monroe just before she left and she’s really gutted about it too. She said Monroe just took off afterwards.”

He notes it away for examination later. “Anything from Dax? Miller?”

A shrug. “Saw Murphy talking to a girl. Not one of ours. Looked kind of serious. That’s all I know.” She reaches out, touches his hand. He remembers how she was before — all of this. How useful it was to have her after the bus crash; her face pinched in concentration while she stitched them up. How they had led the delinquents, hand in hand, for a little while. It’s only been three weeks. But everything has changed. She’s been sneaking around. She’s got Lexa’s number in her phone, just labelled ‘the Commander’. So, yeah. He suspects her.

“Thanks, Clarke,” is what he says aloud. It makes them even. She’s not the only liar in their crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obligatory shout-out to the stellars, a Good Band. listen to them at the included link!
> 
> did you like this? please leave me a comment! i love them


	2. two

Blake had stayed long enough that Jon bought him his own slice of pie. Kid had eaten it without thanking him.

In the morning, he goes downstairs, still in his pajamas, to check his mail. Finds the Ice Prince leaning up against the wall. Roan straightens up as Jon opens the door, stubs out his cigarette. Jon carefully ignores him as he sifts through his mailbox — nothing interesting — and then addresses him. “You got information or something?”

“I’ve got whatever it takes for you to let me in,” says Roan in that baritone voice. Jon won’t let it get to him.

Jon sighs, opens the door. “Take off your shoes,” he says. “And don’t talk to me. I’m working.

Roan takes off his shoes and follows him upstairs. Lurks by the coffee pot. “It’s still warm,” says Jon, locating his own abandoned mug.

“You gonna offer me any?” Roan asks.

“You know where the cups are.”

Roan scowls and pours himself his own coffee. Jon finds his phone, starts calling around to the local hospitals and morgues. “Who you calling the morgue for?” asks Roan, curious, in between calls.

“Case,” Jon says, and pushes the photo of the kid over. As Roan examines it, he calls Barlow, his last attempt for today. “Hey, Barlow, looking for a kid. Yeah? You ready? Okay, he’s about seventeen, five ten, skinny. White. Blue eyes, brown hair.” Squints down at the picture. “Kind of. Lizard-y. Yeah, I’ll wait.”

Roan shoves the photo back at him, shrugs. “What use are you?” Jon hisses, covering the phone’s speaker with one hand and tugs the photo back. Roan frowns and looks away.

There’s some static on the line, and then Barlow’s voice is back in his ear. “I think I got something for you,” she says, her voice kind of crackly. “Can you come over?”

“Yeah,” says Jon. “I’m coming over.” He hangs up without saying goodbye.

“You going somewhere?” asks Roan.

“You can get out of here.”

“I’m not finished with my coffee,” says Roan, mournfully, into his mug.

“Pour it out in the sink,” suggests Jon unkindly.

—

Murphy wakes up and his mouth tastes like blood again. “It’s fuckin’ freezing,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” says Dax, his cellmate since — since Mbege. “Sit up and tip your head back. You’re bleeding.”

Murphy groans — too cold to move.

“C’mon,” says Dax, shoving at him. “If you choke on your own blood I don’t wanna get shit for it.”

Murphy sits up, tips his head back. “Real thoughtful of you.”

“Thanks,” says Dax. “I do my best.”

—

Barlow only lives half a block away. She’s got a health clinic up front. A little farther back she’s got a finder witch with a little shop for location services. She’s good stock. Works with witches, gangs, the underbelly of the city — anyone poor enough to not be profitable, that the government would prefer to be dead. Roan doesn’t want to be seen in a place like that, poor princeling that he is, so he takes off as soon as Jon shuts his own door.

He doesn’t knock at Barlow’s door, just lets himself in. Barlow’s having a kid put his head between his knees, stop a nosebleed, but straightens up when she sees Jon lurking. Motions him along to her office. She pulls out a couple pages from her filing cabinet. “This your kid?” she asks, pushing them towards him on the desk.

It’s a perfect match. The same blue eyes, about seventeen, lizard-y. The difference is that in his photo, he’s smiling, giving the camera the bird, but smiling all the same. Happy.

Barlow’s photo is a mugshot. John Murphy. 17. Arson.

“What do you know about him?” asks Jon. He’s known Barlow since — well, probably since he moved back to the city. She’s always on his side.

“He’s one of a hundred wanted juvenile delinquents that disappeared somewhere between Seattle and here. And he’s probably a witch.”

“Seriously?”

“There’s a reward, too. I got mugshots of all one hundred of them; they sent it out in the latest Underground Railroad newsletter. Why are you looking for him?”

“Got hired for it,” says Jon, already thinking about the next thing. “Is Cassidy working today?”

“Yeah,” says Barlow. “You gonna try him out?”

“Yeah, I think I might,” says Jon. “Thanks for the information, Barlow. Can I keep this photo?”

“You’re welcome to it, Wilde.” says Barlow. “You know my number.”

He’s got it memorized. “Yeah,” he agrees. “And you know mine.”

—

Cassidy is the witch working out of Barlow’s back room. He’s got dirty blond hair, green eyes, and scabby elbows. He’s dealing with a customer when Jon pokes his head in, and he waits until the witch has finished drawing up a map before he steps into view.

“Hey,” he says, nicely even. “I’ve got a missing kid I’m looking for.”

“Yeah?” asks Cassidy. “You want me to do something about it?”

“I’ve got a photograph,” he says, an offering. “Two of them, actually.”

Cassidy bares his teeth at him, a parody of a smile. “If you pay me ten bucks I’d be happy to lie to you for five minutes. But you know better.”

“They’re hard copies,” says Jon hopefully.

“Can’t get anything from a photo,” Cassidy tells him, yet again. “Get out of here, you’re scaring off people who want to pay money. Skedaddle.”

Jon skedaddles. Gotta do his own legwork. Same as usual, then.

—

He trawls through morgue records, visits the hospital twice more, scans the newspaper. Spends an hour or two with the microfiche in the library, getting well-acquainted with John Murphy’s geneology which was almost a lead but was definitely a dead end. Texts Blake about anything John owned; everything that he brings to Cassidy shows up blank.

Realizes his mistake too late: he’s looking in all the wrong places because he’s been looking on the right side of the law. John is a probable witch, crashed here and connected with Blake. He looks through the other ninety-nine photos of the juvenile delinquents that Barlow has: Blake isn’t among them. And Blake hasn’t scooped John up on contract; he would have reported his disappearance to the authorities then, not hired a private investigator. He texts Blake about it, once: _Your boy works?_

Gets a single word response: _Yeah._

He sets up a meeting with Blake at the diner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck you roan you're useless
> 
> barlow's way is the right way to stop a nosebleed. she's a professional. don't listen to dax.
> 
> uhhhhhh okay! thanks for reading! leave me a comment if you're into that kind of thing. i'm extremely into that kind of thing. thank you. ch3 is almost done so it'll be out in like march because that's how i update now


	3. three

The diner is all brights: white lights, red seats, linoleum. Roan has to blink a few times before he steps past the _please wait to be seated_ sign and takes his place across from Jon.

“I didn’t invite you here,” says Jon. “And this isn’t really your side of town.” Even, a hint of mild. Roan’s got a handle on it.

“You looked lonely,” he says. “And I got information for you. You always like that, don’t you?” Looks up and across to the waitress who has reappeared to refill Jon’s coffee (black). “I’ll take a triple steakburger with those parmesan seasoned fries, alright honey? And a cuppa joe.” Dials down the gravel a notch till it sounds like he’s being sweet. Twitches a smile. She looks unimpressed. Typical.

Jon makes a noncomittal grunt. “I’m not buying you dinner,” he says, which is sometimes a lie.

“Sure, sure, sure,” says Roan, real agreeable. “You gonna eat your pie?”

“Yes,” says Jon, and pulls it closer to himself.

Roan would follow that lead more, but that’s about the time that the diner door swings open, windchime rattling, and a third person walks in only to ignore _please wait to be seated._ Kid comes through, and just behind him, the triple steakburger and fries. Kid looks him over. Roan smirks. Kid knows exactly who he is. Kid sits down next to him anyway. Jon tells the kid to order whatever he wants, it’s on him. Roan’s very distracted by his burger. He’s real tall. He needs all that protein.

Jon’s going over the kid’s case with him, detailing what he has and hasn’t found out. Oh yeah, this is the pro-bono case with the juvie kid. He reaches rudely across them both for the salt — they never put enough _salt_ on the fries, and yet they’re always the perfect amount of cooked — and keeps looking at Jon’s client. His face is real familiar for some reason. “Hey,” he says, recognition clicking. “Skairat.” Points a fry at the kid. “Blake, right? Bellamy Blake.”

Jon stops talking. Jon stares at him. Pointed. _Would you like to share with the rest of the class, Mr North?_

“Yeah,” says Roan, like he’s just now getting it. “You’re the leader of Skaikru, aren’t you? And you’re missing your second.”

Bellamy looks to Jon, to Roan, for mercy, for an undoing. Then he starts talking.

Roan tunes a lot of that out. His voice gets all high and desperate, trying to explain. Jon is unswayed and unsympathetic. Fries are real good. Jon lets Bellamy peter out into nothingness, keeps the silence for a minute or two. Roan appraises him. He’s sweating. Roan tries not to enjoy it too much.

“Right,” says Jon finally. His voice is as mild as it gets. Worse than mad: he’s disappointed. “We’re done here.”

“ _Please —“_

Jon stands up, not bothering with his coffee or his pie. “I don’t work for gangs,” he says.

“You’ve got the Azgeda prince at your table,” says Bellamy, incredulous. “Like _fuck_ you don’t work for gangs.”

Jon looks at Roan. Roan looks at Jon. Swallows his mouthful of fries. Jon looks at Bellamy. “I don’t work for him. He's my informant. We don’t associate with each other.”

“You a fuckin cop now, Jonny?” says Roan’s mouth before his brain catches up. Jon glares at him, then stalks out of the diner without paying.

Christ.

Bellamy’s after him like a shadow. Roan swears and stands up. Leaves a fifty dollar bill on the table, goes after them.

Roan arrives at the back alley too late for most of it, but — Jon’s got a real nice left hook still, and it’s all fists hitting flesh. Air smells like the garbage dump, like the cool spring air and oncoming rain, and just a tinge of blood. Jon takes him down and makes him stay down, and — he’s not even fighting anymore by the end of it. When’d you get so _cold,_ Jonny?

Least all that brawn isn’t wasted on him.

“Put your tongue back in your head and call Barlow,” says Jon very suddenly. He’s leaving the scene and — Roan falls into step behind him.

“We wouldn’t have to call Barlow if you hadn’t lost your temper,” Roan says, trying for his own kind of mild.

“If I had lost my temper, we wouldn’t need to call Barlow.”

…Oh. Alright. “Yeah? Who the fuck do you call to clean up bodies these days?”

“Haven’t had to,” admits Jon. There is a long pause. “Figured you’d know a guy.”

Yeah. He knows a guy.

—

Clarke is the one who picks him up from Barlow’s place. Clarke is the one who walks him home, lets him lean on her, supports him. She frowns at him and pushes the hair out of his eyes and tries to tell him about the plans she has to join with Trikru, with Azkru, maybe meet up with all the little factions there are scattered around the city. Get what witches they’ve got, train them with whatever pockets of wild witches still live here. The problem with that is, Polaris is a contract-on-sight city as of six months ago, meaning that if you find out someone is a witch you can contract their services for a minimum of one year, no consent necessary. You get a collar on a witch, it’s all fair game from there. It’d be smarter just to get out of the city, that’s what Bellamy thinks; leave town and never look back. As soon as he has all his assets in order. As soon as he has another place to go. As soon as his sister is safe —

That’s where it gets all messy in his head. All tangled up and painful. That’s why Clarke’s the head and Bellamy’s the heart. It’s why they’re such a great team. Or whatever.

He’s still got a missing second. Clarke’s helped him all she’s gonna help him — he knows she doesn’t think it’s a problem. Then she had something to do with it. Or it really isn’t a problem. She thinks they’re dead, probably, maybe even found their bodies, but doesn’t have the heart to tell him. Sometimes he thinks she doesn’t have any heart at all.

Wow, Bell, that’s mean.

But he’s right. He’s seen Clarke shoot a gun, kill a man, like she’s had practice at it, like she’s done it before. He doesn’t know what Clarke was in juvie for. Maybe it was for murder. Bellamy shot one man — one man! — to save a hundred witches, and even that was too much for him.

But Trikru. He can shoot at Trikru with no guilty conscious.

They attacked first. He had to.

“Hey,” says Clarke when they get back to the warehouse. “You get some rest, okay? You’re hurt pretty bad.”

She never asked him how he got hurt. Maybe that was her fault, too. Maybe she and Wilde are in cahoots. They both wear iron: Wilde’s got that iron Saint pendant and she has the watch on her wrist, except the face of the watch is just runes, like that would ever be helpful for telling time. They both have — alright, that’s about where the similarities end. And that’s kind of a long stretch. Wilde was actually telling him information when the Azgeda guy gave him away. _They’re_ definitely in cahoots. They walk the same way.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

He lets her fuss over him for a minute or two. She leaves a cup of water by his mattress. “Thanks, Clarke,” he says. Then he kind of closes his eyes. Drifts off.

There’s a _thump_ at the end of his mattress. “Hey, brother,” says —

He sits up and almost hits his head on the low ceiling. “Octavia.”

“Who else? I’m back, bitches, etc, etc, etc, and all that,” she says. Grins at him. She’s always so _happy_ now, in the warm air, being outside, not plagued by iron.

“That’s too many etceteras,” he tells her. “You just need the one.”

“Got a lot to talk about but I gotta keep it in a short format,” Octavia tells him. “But you go first, cause there’s a story to those bruises, and I’m ready to hear it.”

“Yeah?” he says, and darts his eyes to the thin curtain that separates his alcove from the rest of the kru. Octavia watches him do it, and then kisses her fingers and presses them to his lips. He stares at her. His lips are slightly wet with her spit.

“Your words won’t leave this room,” she promises him. “Kept between us.” She kind of touches his knee. “Secret.”

“That’s a different spell than you normally use,” he says.

“Mmm,” she says. “I’ve been trying some new things with Atom.”

“Yeah?” he says, and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “New things? With Atom?”

She laughs at him, and he — he — he wants to see her happy, but he doesn’t want her to get _hurt,_ and boys are always trouble, he should _know_ —

“Yeah,” she says. “New things with Atom. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, brother. And it’s not time for my secrets yet. You’re up first.”

He makes a mental note of Atom — about the same height as him, curly hair, wild eyes, always desperate to prove his point — and divulges his secrets. Summarizes, really. Hard not to, after a spell like that.

—

Jon doesn’t talk to him again until they’re both outside his apartment/office. Then it’s all, “Why are you still here.” Not even a question. “You can leave.”

Roan bought three apartments on this block just so he could rent one of them out to Jon. He’s not even invited in now. “I still got information for you,” he says. “That’s the truth.”

“What is it?”

“Can I stay overnight?” Returning to the Ice Court, at this time of night is — less than pleasant.

“No. Rose wouldn’t like that.”

It’s all about Rose now, isn’t it. “Can I come in, at least?”

Jon looks him over. “Just for a bit,” he says.

“Sure, sure.”

Jon unlocks the door to the apartment. Upstairs, Jon puts a pot of coffee on, takes off his coat, that tall black leather trenchcoat affair he probably thinks makes him look _so cool._ Roan doesn’t have a coat to take off, so he sticks his hands in his pockets and looks around. Crouches to look at Jon’s bookshelf like he cares. It’s definitely got books on it. They’ve got titles and spines.

“Why is _he_ here?” says a small, accusatory voice behind him.

Roan turns, gives a little wave. “Hey, Rosie,” he says.

“Work stuff, honey,” says Jon, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “He’ll be gone soon.”

Roan knows when he’s not wanted, so he stands, real slow, so as not to startle, and crosses through Jon’s kitchen to his sliding door, and the balcony it reveals. Digs a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Lighter takes a couple restarts in the wet air. Listens to Jon and Rose’s muffled conversation through the glass. Flicks his ash out into what qualifies as their backyard below: a fenced-in space, a little bit of grass. Rose wasn’t around when he bought the place. Rose is why Jon chose this apartment, the one with three bedrooms on the corner of the street. The one with an iron-lined first-floor office, keeps out witches. Or at least keeps them from doing magic. Probably useful for his clients, his informants, whoever. Roan doesn’t appreciate it.

He stubs out his cigarette when a door slams from inside, rattles the whole house. He slides the glass back, comes back in to the kitchen, smelling like cigarette smoke and almost-rain. He wants to lean over the kitchen counter and say _Storm’s comin’, Jonny,_ all dramatic and shit, but there’s — There’s —

Jon’s got a woman in his house he’s touching her arm and it’s like he’s sixteen and making all the wrong choices again. So he just leans, and stares, and Jon says, “Thanks for coming over. I’ll see you on Monday?” and the woman gives her assent and takes her leave, barely giving him a second glance.

“Who the fuck was that?” asks Roan in a low voice, once Jon’s attention is free.

“That’s Janis,” says Jon, very even. “She’s my assistant. She babysits Rose sometimes.”

“Oh,” says Roan. And then, because he can’t stop: “You think she’s pretty?”

“Fuck off,” says Jon without heat, and moves past him to shut the sliding door. “What’s your information, then, princeling? Anything useful, or you just yanking me along?” _Like always,_ goes unsaid.

“The other case you’re working on — the one with the diamond collar. Ivon had something to say about it. I got pictures.”

Jon gets out his notebook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roan plz
> 
> bellamy you're an idiot
> 
> remember when atom was a thing?
> 
> i want a steakburger but i have no money to buy one. please send me comments instead. you look very nice today.


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is all about how jasper jordan doesn't know how to use a flip phone

He replaces his usual snack at the Moonlight diner with a walk in the city. Some people say the city is dangerous, and they’re right, but he looks like he’s part of the problem, which lends him a certain amount of safety. He walks across the bridge one way, it’s all good. Coming back the other way, there’s a kid standing just past the safety railing. Lookin’ real serious down at the water beneath. There is no conscious decision, it’s just —

“Hey,” says Jon, and leans over the railing. “You want a cigarette?”

Kid half-turns to look at him. He’s got rings around his eyes, from tiredness, from crying. Got a sketchy little mustache trying to make itself known on his face, but he’s young. Real young. Too young to be on this bridge. “I don’t smoke,” says the kid. His voice is scratched through. “I mean. Not nicotine, anyway.”

“Good choice,” says Jon. “Never start, heard it’s real bad for your health.”

“Yeah,” says the kid. “It’s the formeldahyde and the stuff in the cigarette itself that’s bad for you, I mean. That’s what’s real bad for your health. Nicotine is fine. That’s why they have e-cigarettes. Vaping, I mean. But you’re probably too old for that, I guess?”

Jon’s not sure if the kid’s nervous or if he’s usually this way. “I’ve heard of vaping,” he says. “How old do you think I am?”

“Old,” says the kid. “How old do you think _I_ am?”

Quick judgement. “About fifteen.”

“Sixteen!”

“Yeah? I was close, though. What’re you doing out here tonight, if not to smoke, then?”

“Y’know. Enjoying the view.”

“Yeah?” says Jon, and this is the part where he needs to keep the kid talking. “Anything in particular?”

“My girlfriend died. Maya.” Says her name like a prayer, like a prophecy. “You see that building over there? That’s where.” Jon lets his eyes track to the kid’s pointed finger. Nods like he understands.

“You loved her?” he asks, because that’s probably what matters to the kid.

“Yeah.”

“Me too,” says Jon, and the kid starts, actually looks up at him. “Emily.”

“You loved her?”

“Yeah.”

“How did she — how are you — ?”

Jon holds out a hand, across the railing, towards the kid. “Jon Wilde,” he says. “Grief did a lot of things to me, but I didn’t let it kill me.”

Kid stares at him. Jon sweetens the deal: “C’mon,” he says. “You hungry? I’m about to get dinner.”

“Jasper Jordan,” says the kid, and he takes Jon’s hand. Lets Jon pull him back over the railing.

So Jon goes to the Moonlight Diner anyway.

—

Raven touches the collar around her throat, careful. It’s a nice collar: Abby had picked it out herself. It’s velvet on the inside, leather on the outside. No iron — Abby trusts her, and anyway, there’s always the microchip in her shoulder to drag her back to reality.

“You’ll get in to the city by train,” says Abby. “You have your papers. Once you get there, lose them. It doesn’t matter how. You find those kids, you radio back. We’ll get them out. All right?”

“I don’t want to go without you,” Raven hears herself say. Small, frightened.

“Only one of us needs to get on the ground, Raven,” says Abby, stepping closer. “As soon as you find those kids, you radio back.”

“You’re gonna be killed if they find out you sent me,” Raven says, too quiet. Kane and Jaha, the two head witch hunters, haven’t given the go-ahead. Abby’s daughter is among the juvies who went missing.“Abby, I —“

“Then they’ll kill me,” says Abby, fierce determination. Embraces Raven so suddenly that Raven forgets herself and hugs her back. When she is released, Abby squeezes her hands. “Tell Clarke that I love her.”

Raven swallows hard, nods. Abby reaches up, unlocks the collar from around her neck. Unbuckles it. Sets it on the table. Hands her a tiny blue book; her passport and papers to get into the city. A bag full of normal travel essentials, a change of clothes, toiletries. No technology until she enters the city.

There’s Clarke Griffin, Abby’s missing daughter. But there’s also Finn Collins, also missing and believed to have been in that same bus crash. It's a long ride to Polaris. She's got a lot to think about.

—

Jasper eats an entire plate full of fries, two glasses of lemonade, and one garlic double steakburger. He’s lingering on his extra side bowl of chili when JW asks him, “You need a ride home?” because it’s been like ten minutes and he hasn’t made much progress.

He swallows. He doesn’t want to see Monty’s face yet. “I don’t want to —“

“I’ve got a spare bedroom,” says JW. Look, Jon, that’s nice and all, but you don’t have to brag about having a big apartment in the city.“If you wanted to stay the night at my place,” JW goes on to say.

Jasper swallows. “That’s how you get murdered, JW,” he says. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, honestly, except like, he kind of wants to do it himself. You want a job done well, you do it yourself and all that.

“That’s fair,” says JW, like he understands, which he probably totally does. “Let me check in with Rose about it.” Jasper stares at him, and JW fishes an absolutely ancient phone out of his pocket. Presses _actual buttons_ to dial the number he wants. “Hey Rose,” he says into it. “I was just wondering if it’s okay if Jasper stays overnight in the second bedroom. Yeah? Okay, you can talk to him.” Passes the phone over the Jasper.

Jasper takes it gingerly by the top half. The screen half. He’s not really sure how to hold it properly, but he presses it to his ear. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “So this guy, Jon, he isn’t an axe murderer, right?”

“Nah,” says the voice on the other end of the line. A child’s voice, or a young teenager’s. “He uses a garrote.”

Jasper makes a shocked noise into the phone, and lets that hang out for a minute. “What is a garrote?”

“Like a sharp bit of wire you use to strangle someone but also maybe cut their throat.” Rose lets that settle for a minute. “I’m kidding,” she says finally. “Jon’s a good egg.”

“Yeah?” Jasper asks. “Scrambled or fried?”

“Hard-boiled,” says Rose firmly.

“Thanks, Rose. That’s good to know. I’ll see you soon, I guess.” He hands the phone back to JW, who holds it to his ear and then shuts it closed. “Your daughter calls you by your first name?” he asks, because that’s who Rose is, right? There’s no other explanation.

“Long story, JJ,” says JW.

“Alright, JW,” says Jasper, finally pushing his uneaten chili aside, standing up finally. “Maybe you can tell me some of it on the way there.”

It’s a night full of truths. JW does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lukotwar!raven
> 
> alright that was my big twist y'all can go home now the show is over, no more story
> 
> (confused what a lukotwar is? go read my other series, 'go home or make a home'. it's canon-verse and i was not as good at writing two years ago as i am now) 
> 
> please leave me comments they are my favorite things ever. not sure what to write? tell me what you think is gonna happen! who is your favorite character so far? where do you think murphy is? how do roan and jon know each other? what's up with raven and abby? i also accept incoherent strings of letters. thanks for reading! <3


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for elective surgery (nothing super graphic but still kind of Gross)
> 
> clarke’s trying to keep this pg-13 and Failing

Light flickers on. Murphy grunts. He only got to sleep about twenty minutes ago, it seems. He kicks Dax awake, and Dax sits up and pulls the blanket with him and — _freezing —_

“Christ,” says Dax, but he’s awake. “It’s like. Five.”

“Shh,” hisses Murphy. “There’s someone coming down the stairs.”

“You shhh,” says Dax back, but he shuts up.

The footsteps get closer.

—

Raven hasn’t been allowed unfettered access to technology since before the planetarium, and when she gets to the library and touches the keyboard, she’s got that moment, that little pause of hesitation — _what if I’m not good at this anymore?_ But then she’s doing it, and she’s elbow-deep into the city’s security camera footage, cross-referencing the streets where she knows the bus crashed, and — there.

There.

Finn.

His hair is longer, real scruffy. Got a little bit of a beard going on, too. Five-o-clock awful. And he’s got — yeah, he’s got Clarke with him. She’s seen enough pictures to recognize the youngest Griffin, even under the hoodie and some weird eye-makeup thing she’s apparently trying out. Mm. Hide from facial recognition, probably. Finn’s got something like that on his face too, now that she looks at him closer: black-and-white marks on each of his cheeks. She cross-references Finn with a couple different cameras: white and black triangles on each dimple, hair pulled over one eye. So it’s [intentional.](https://cvdazzle.com/)

Good thing she’s not a robot then. Not an algorithm. She’s real, and she knows where to find them. What she’ll do when she gets there?

She’s not sure about that yet.

—

Clarke is the one who answers the door. It’s not a pizza delivery gotten lost; it’s a tall girl with long hair, tied up in a ponytail. She says “Clarke Griffin?” and Clarke says “Yes?” even though she _knows_ better, names are a commodity, admitting to being herself is practically a crime in and of itself —

But the girl doesn’t arrest her. Instead, she says, “Your mom sent me,” and Clarke’s blood still runs cold. Her mom is an officer working in the Magic Crime division, and these days, everything to do with magic is basically a crime.

“And you are?” Clarke hears herself ask, and her voice doesn’t even shake.

“I’m looking for someone else,” says the girl instead, trying to look past her to the warehouse within.

“You want to get past me, you give up your name. Fair trade.”

The girl looks focuses back on her, meets her eyes. “Raven Reyes,” she says, gritting it out, an admission. So they’ve got power over each other now; mutually assured destruction.

“You work?” asks Clarke, the question witches ask other witches. If you don’t know, you don’t work.

“Yeah,” says Raven.

“You still wild after spending time with my mom?”

“Techno-mage,” says Raven. “And the best mechanic you’ve never seen.”

Clarke goes for the gun that she set on the end table by the door. She gestures with it, stepping aside to let Raven enter. “You make the wrong move, I’ll shoot you,” she says, very pleasant. “Who are you looking for, Reyes?’

Raven steps in, looking around. Clarke likes to believe that she’s astonished at what they’ve built here; a home made by witches, for witches. A spot of freedom in a city full of traps. She turns to Clarke, then, and — moves past her, seeing someone she knows and recognizes.

Clarke turns with her, and Raven is embracing Finn. And he is hugging her back.

Clarke sets down the gun.

—

Bellamy comes back to the hideout to find Clarke with a knife out torturing somebody. New information there, Griffin. Didn’t think you had it in you.

He gets closer. Maybe she is interested in his missing lieutenants — No. That isn’t what’s happening here. Finn is holding the stranger’s hand, and she’s gripping on tight. Clarke has a knife out and she’s cutting into the other girl, but — with purpose. Not to cause pain. Searching for something.

A microchip.

“You let a government witch in _here?_ ” he snarls, and crosses to them, feeling the anger in the set of his shoulders and in the strain in his jaw. “What the —“

“Not in front of the children,” says Clarke, and _seriously —_ but at least she explains herself. “This is Raven,” she says. “She was my mother’s witch until recently.” She doesn’t look up from Raven’s bicep, and says to the girl herself “I’m not finding anything, are you sure it was this one?”

“She was your _mother’s witch_ and you think that makes it better?” yelps Bellamy.

“I wasn’t what you would call conscious when they put it in,” says Raven, lazy with it.

“Okay, I’ll try the other one,” says Clarke, pulling back and Raven laughs, all casual, like she gets cut apart every day, like she’s — She’s high. Clarke and Finn put something in her, or on her, or she drank something, or Monty and Jasper were here, or —

He’s stepping forward, and at least Finn is paying attention, because he’s the one that looks up and _glares._ “Somebody’s going to fucking explain this to me,” Bellamy snarls, as Clarke disinfects the spot where she was cutting into Raven and maneuvering to the other shoulder.

“Raven and I are partners,” says Finn, tight. “We both got caught, but I’m younger so they just put me in juvie. Raven — went to Witch School. And got contracted by Clarke’s mom. To find us.”

“So she found us,” spits Bellamy. “And she betrayed you already, if she’s alive and contracted. We should kill her, not try to take her chip out.”

Finn frowns. “Clarke says her mom is alright.”

“Clarke’s mom put her in juvie for treason,” Bellamy snaps back, too harsh and Clarke looks up at him and maybe that’s not a secret he should have spilled. He doesn’t care, in that moment — she doesn’t give his missing lieutenants the time of day, so why should he care about _decorum —_ “What, you really think Jaha had anything to do with it?”

Raven lolls her head towards Clarke. “Face it, Griffin,” she says. “Your mom’s kind of a bitch.”

“Must be where you get it from,” says Bellamy without thinking.

Finn snarls, but he can’t move from where he’s holding Raven’s hand, and he’s wearing iron voluntarily for whatever reason. Clarke’s hands shake, but she takes a deep breath and says, “Look, I can’t give you the fight we both know is coming while I’m performing surgery, so you can back the fuck off, Blake.”

“The microchip isn’t a microchip,” says Bellamy. “They have you take a pill, and it’s a computer chip. You have to cut it out of the back of her neck. A little incision, and mercury comes out.”

“What the fuck,” says Raven. “How does that even make sense.”

“How do you know this?” asks Clarke, though she still won’t look at him.

“How do you think I got on that bus?” he asks, and then he leaves them to it. Done enough damage for today, probably.

—

Murphy doesn’t know what’s coming, but he wants to be awake for it. He fucking hates being dragged out of the cage still asleep, kicked awake and retching before he knows what’s going on.

It’s some dude with long hair tied back. He’s tall, but he walks like he’s not supposed to be here, like he’s trespassing. He looks in every one of the cages before he sees them, and he makes this loud awful sighing sound before he squats down, takes out his phone, and starts snapping pictures of them. After the first ten or so, Murphy turns his face away, the only resistance he can really offer. The cold has sapped away most of his other defenses.

“I don’t have the keys,” says the guy eventually, tucking his phone back away in his pocket. “I’m sorry.” His voice is gravel and he sounds like he’s been smoking since he was five years old. He pulls out a protein shake from his jacket, unscrews the lid. “You can split this if you hurry,” he says, setting it down within reach.

It’s Dax that reaches out, cautious and then all-at-once. He downs half of it in one swallow, and then Murphy punches his arm and he hands over the rest. It tastes like chocolate and nothing. Dax screws the lid back on and they put the bottle back outside the cage. There’s a beat of silence, and the man tucks the bottle away again.

“Why?” asks Dax, as the man turns to leave.

“There’s someone looking for you,” he says, and then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> murphy immediately: it's bellamy!!!  
> dax, also immediately: shut up
> 
> finn!! you're alive!!! i'm so proud
> 
> okay pals! the 100 season 5 happens on Tuesday and I, also, am very excited. 
> 
> do you like reading this story? leave a comment! they mean the absolute world to me. thanks for reading!!


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a Weird Note: this story is technically a fanfiction of my other series 'go home or make a home' and so they are kind of AUs of each other. you don't have to read both to enjoy both, but if you want to, you can! 'i'll be good' is where prosper and moss are originally from.

Prosper had known it was coming, but when Moss blooms before 7am on the day that he is supposed to present his paper-mache volcano, he despairs a little.

It happens like this: Moss is awake because the sun is awake and this is when Prosper starts getting ready for work. He’ll take himself to before-school care, it’s only a couple blocks to the bus stop and Prosper can watch from the window to make sure he gets there safe. Moss is sitting at the table eating a crumbly burnt toast slice, casually levitating his fork, and Prosper’s heart stops for one-two-three beats and, and look, Prop, it didn’t happen at school, it’s happening now, you can protect him. Take a deep breath. “Hey,” he says, sitting down next to him. “Stop that, okay, I wanna talk to you.”

Moss sets the fork down instantly, gives his attention to Prosper, like it’s no big thing, not a real deal. Prosper pauses, he breathes, he’s got it together.

“You been doing this for awhile?” asks Prosper, staying calm. It’s not a big deal, Moss. This happens all the time to kids.

“Last night I figured out how,” says Moss, all shy.

“Okay, that’s fine,” says Prosper. If he stays calm then Moss has no reason to panic. “I think it looks nice. But something’s come up, okay, and I need you to go pack a bag for me; we might stay overnight some place else tonight, so bring your toothbrush.”

“Am I going to miss school today?” Moss asks, and Prosper hates that he’s already done this enough times that Moss knows what to expect, but Azgeda kills pay his bills, so it’s what he’s got.

“Sorry, kid,” Prosper says, keeping his voice light. “Duty calls.”

While Moss is packing his bag, Prosper calls in his last resort.

—

Dax and Murphy are sitting at opposite ends of the cage when there are footsteps on the stairs. They had been trying to snuggle for warmth, but there were too many elbows to guts and now they’re separated and not talking to each other. Dax glances to Murphy, and Murphy says “It’s Blake,” for the fucking hundredth time this week, and Dax shoots a glare at him.

It’s a Black woman with scars all over her face and a bald white dude with a dusting of white-blond scruff. The woman has a taser with her. The man has his fists. Dax isn’t willing to fuck with either of them.

“You get the chance to earn your freedom back,” says the woman. “If you can kill the Queen, you can go free. If not, the other can try.” She looks over the both of them, hungry and alive. Murphy glances to Dax: they both know he has the better chance, he’s already done it once before. “We’ll take the arsonist first.”

Murphy fights when they try and take him out of the cage. Dax doesn’t try to help. There’s the sound of the taser firing, Murphy’s pain, and they take him upstairs.

—

A woman answers the phone: “Wilde Investigations, my name is Janis, how may I help you?”

Prosper is thrown, but only for a minute. “Can I speak to Jon?”

“He’s not in right now, I’d be happy to take a message.”

Right. It’s still early. He’s probably drinking coffee, maybe getting Rose ready for school — and Prosper realizes that he’s clenching so tightly around his phone that he can nearly hear it cracking. He relaxes his grip, knuckle by knuckle. “Um, can you just tell him that Prosper called? And that it’s an emergency?”

Janis is saying something in his ear, calm and reassuring and _if you’re in need of immediate medical assistance, please call 911._ Prosper hangs up without saying good-bye. He calls the school to let them know that Moss is sick and won’t be coming in today. Moss stands outside his bedroom door, uncertain but trusting. Prosper gives him a quick, reassuring smile. “We’re gonna go some place safe,” he tells Moss. “And maybe we’ll stop for ice cream on the way there.”

“You don’t have to bribe me,” says Moss, taking his hand. “I know we don’t have the money for that.”

Prosper swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Just this once,” he says. “And you’ll like where we’re staying,” he promises.

Moss doesn’t let go of his hand for the whole trip there.

—

Jasper is trying to drink and keep down coffee when the doorbell rings. He groans; his head hurts, his body hurts, his _mouth_ hurts. He needs carbs and water, but JW is getting Wilde Rose ready for school while trying to navigate a phone tree in one ear and honestly, he’s basically an adult, it shouldn’t be this hard. (And he doesn’t want JW to know he drank himself to sleep again last night. It’s one thing to give shelter to a kid that you borrowed away from suicide — ‘saved’ is still too much of a promise — and it’s another entirely to discover he’s sixteen and a barely-functioning alcoholic with PTSD, probably.) He puts his head into his hands on the table. The doorbell rings again, more insistently.

JW hangs up the phone, reminds Rose to brush her teeth, and goes to answer the door. He has a brief conversation with whoever is at the bottom of the stairs, and then they’re allowed up. Jasper doesn’t lift his head until JW raps his knuckles on the table. “Hey,” he says, rough. Jasper looks at him, and the light is nearly Too Much. “Can you drive?”

“Yeah,” says Jasper. “I don’t have a license though.”

JW snorts, like that’s not even an issue. “Stick-shift, too?” he asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Not great, but I _can._ ”

“Excellent,” says JW. “How do you feel about leaving the city?”

—

“Hey,” says Roan on his doorstep. Rose is making friends with Moss in her room. Prosper is pacing in his kitchen. Jasper is in the shower; that might wake him up. Jon has too many things going on at once, and Roan is not a welcome distraction. Roan always _wants_ things from him, even though he says he comes with information; he wants Jon’s attention, good or bad.

“I can’t deal with you right now,” says Jon. He doesn’t even know why he opened the door, but everything he does drags with anxiety, the strain of holding up too many other people at once.

“I know where your kid is,” Roan says.

“I’m not on that case anymore.”

Roan gives him a look, and Jon can tell he’s copied it from somewhere else. That patient expression of _stop bullshitting me._ “I have pictures,” he says.

“Stop giving me that look,” says Jon. “You stole it from me.” Roan is unrelenting, so eventually Jon says “Show me,” already regretting it.

Roan pulls out his phone, flips through it. Jon inhales sharply: there’s two kids in a cage in the Ice Palace’s basement. Murphy and another one. They don’t look scared so much as exhausted. Jon takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “So they’re in the dungeon. I can tell Blake, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

“There’s a party tonight,” says Roan, urgent and low. “I think we can get them out.”

He lets Roan in. He gives Blake a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prosper is technically an enforcer, not a killer, but that's not as good wordplay, is it
> 
> school starts next week for me, so i'm cutting my hours at work which means i might have some more time for writing? fingers crossed! 
> 
> as always, thank you for reading. let me know if you love this fic by leaving me a comment! don't let me know if you hate it. i don't want to know


End file.
